Death Awaits
by Eledhwen
Summary: Luc Tarpeau's story continues, from a very different point of view. COMPLETE. Chapter 14: with a bang, Mike's stay in Sunnydale comes to an end.
1. The Files

Disclaimer: as I imagine you'll easily guess, most of these characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss. But I claim Luc and the Council agent as mine, and would love to keep them.  
  
Author's note: In 'Les Chroniques Parisiennes', I introduced Luc Tarpeau, trapped in a nightmare against his will. In 'The Breton', Luc went from being a young fledgling to someone you probably shouldn't mess with. In this new story, sequel to 'The Breton', I'm continuing Luc's story from a different perspective. I wanted to see how he'd appear to someone else, rather than seeing how the world appears to him, and I also wanted to carry on where I left off. This fic will have a different tone to the last two, but I hope it's equally enjoyable, and that you'll stick with me and with Luc to find out what happens next.  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 1 - The Files  
  
There's a patch of peeling paint facing my bed, and somehow it's a comforting thing to look at when I can't bear to sit reading these files any longer. That patch is reassuringly banal and ordinary, belonging to everyday human existence, and not the shadowy underworld which I straddle.  
  
There are three files on my lap. Two thick ones, and one a little thinner. The thin one is the easiest to read, the sketchiest in detail, and I find myself often returning to that rather than make another attempt on the thick ones. None of them are marked on the outside, that would be against Council regulations - though what would stop anyone opening them up, I don't know. Maybe the contents. Very probably the contents.  
  
I'm digressing. I'm confusing myself. Maybe I should start at the beginning, explain what brought me to this mouldy hot room in California, and why I'm sitting indoors on a glorious day reading through files that turn my insides the wrong way round. Well, then. Five years ago, I was at university, in my final year, drifting through an education I didn't particularly want, craving action of some sort, desperate for a way out; when I was contacted by a terribly English serious type in tweed, who spoke darkly of things in the night but correctly guessed that I wanted something to do. I was bored enough to go along and have an interview, and they offered me a job - including training - that was better paid than I'd hoped for, and I said yes. A few months later, I arrived at the secluded house that is Council Headquarters, and began training.  
  
They'd hired an ex-SAS guy or something similar, along with martial arts experts and people who'd competed for Britain in archery. We (myself and the other six recruits) were suddenly dropped into the most intensive physical combat course you could possibly imagine. At the same time, we learned about things that went snap in the night, monsters humans prefer to deny, and we learned strange demonic languages. At the end of three months, they gave us our first kills - in controlled circumstances, of course. That meant that they released the vamp into a chamber which was fitted out with a sprinkler system containing Holy Water. If anything went wrong, they'd turn on the sprinklers, and we'd get out of there safe. Afterwards, when I was still panting and proudly covered with the choking dust of my first vampire, someone mentioned that they'd specially chosen a newly risen creature, almost incapable of beating us.  
  
I remember that now, and it sends shivers down my spine. Sure, since then I've got a lot more scalps to my name, and even some fairly nasty demons, but they don't get much nastier than those whose names are in my files.  
  
That year at Headquarters, I met people I'd never have dreamed of becoming friends with before. I met one of them in the library as I was trying to learn Latin verbs - he was buried beneath a pile of books on varying subjects, but he offered to help me out. We were polar opposites, me and Wesley, but beneath his stiff exterior the guy meant well, and he knew his stuff. He'd killed his vamp too, in controlled circumstances, though he was a proper Watcher and not an active agent like me. It's partly because of Wesley that I'm here now. I miss him - never thought I would, but I do. And near the beginning of the training I watched Rupert Giles leave Headquarters on his way to this same small Californian town, the envy of half the Council and the laughing-stock of the other half. I think now they respect him, respect what he's done. I've been on the Hellmouth for a week and already I hate the place.  
  
The news about Wesley came a few weeks ago. His father rang the Chairman and left a terse message, and then the Council got on to finding out what had happened. From the stark news that Wesley was dead, they found out he'd been drained, and then they dug a bit more, and bribed people, and that was when we got put on Red Alert. I packed a case and waited, and three days ago they gave me the files and told me to get out here. I didn't open the files until last night. They sat in my case, but I couldn't bear to read them. I thought I had a fair idea of what was in them.  
  
I was wrong.  
  
When, last night, I finally got around to opening the first one, the thin one, I started to doubt myself. I started to realise why Travers had had that look in his eye as he waved me off - the "farewell and adieu" look. The look that means he doesn't expect you to come back.  
  
On the front page of the thinnest file there was a copy of a portrait. Quite a good portrait, I think. It shows a young man - very young, just twenty at a guess, with long dark hair and grey eyes, and high cheekbones. He's smiling at the painter in a kind of knowing way, but it's an attractive smile. It's an attractive face. On the back of the sheet there's a date, 1857, and the name of the painter, and then there's the biography. Name, nickname, lineage. It's the lineage which first brings you up short. Order of Aurelius is always bad news, always, and with . with that sire . Anyway, then there's his dates, and they're pretty bad, because he's already well past 150 years, which means he's no fool. Then the Council reports begin, in clear type, printed from the archives. Unusually, they start before his death - for a while he was on our side. But then the death toll begins. Massacre in Brittany. Nantes. Biarritz. Down through Spain, eastwards across Europe. And they're only the deaths we can definitely attribute to him. The Breton, they called him, partly I think because of that first horrific massacre in Morbihan, and partly because of his origins. As vampires go, he's kept a low profile, until now, though several of those reports made my blood run cold. But I got through his file, and turned to the next.  
  
That one spelt trouble as soon as I flipped over the cover. A female, blonde and beautiful, and of course I knew that face. Everyone knows that face, for Darla has been around longer than almost any other vamp on record. Nearly four centuries now, and she's not looking like giving up just yet - well, to be strictly fair, she did get dusted a few years back, but in an ironic and terrible twist of fate was resurrected. Now, they think she's back to her old killing ways. Sire, Heinrich Nest, a skeletal creature luckily killed by the Slayer. Her true name is unknown - to the Council, she has always been simply Darla. Beautiful, and lethal. Her file was ghastly, reading like a guide to the world written in blood, and I stopped twice reading through it.  
  
I left the last file until this evening. If I'm truthful with myself, I knew who it would be. I hated university, but I'm not stupid, and I can put two and two together and make four. Yet the confirmation, in the form of another portrait, made me slam the cover shut and run for the bathroom.  
  
At the Council, they say that they sent people after him before, and that nobody ever won. That his victims number thousands and thousands. He's the sort of vampire you run from, as far and as fast as you possibly can, and you never, ever, stop running.  
  
I open the file again, steeled against whatever I'm about to read, and gaze for a moment at that angelic face. It's another old portrait, and he's wearing deep red velvet and lace, dark hair tied back, dark eyes gazing right out at you. He wears a charming, lopsided smile and the painter has caught the way the light reflects off his cheekbones and the deep brow. It's the sort of face that would make a movie star these days. I turn the page, and read the details, though I know them already. Angelus, the Scourge of Europe, Order of Aurelius, sired by Darla. 1727 - 1753, and then 1753 to the present. A note adds, "Cursed with a soul by Romani, 1898, curse lost 1997, recursed 1998 (see notes)." Below that, someone has added in blue biro, "Believed uncursed 2001."  
  
Slowly, I begin to read. It's a litany of torture and mayhem and terror. Words leap out at me, images fill my mind. I doubt I'll sleep tonight. And it's not like I wasn't prepared for this, not like I hadn't known what to expect. I stop after thirty years of reports and get a glass of whisky. After one hundred I refill the glass.  
  
It gets better when I reach the twentieth century, and the reports dwindle to vague sightings and vaguer rumours. And it's fine when I read the reports filed from this little town by Rupert Giles, apart from the niggle that's a product of Watcher training, which wonders what a Slayer saw in a vampire. My reading actually slows, as I savour the peace, and then abruptly speeds up again with the list of crimes on the Hellmouth, and the photographs (stolen from police files?) of the scene carefully laid out for the Watcher.  
  
Then I come upon a few, terse pages signed by Wesley, describing nights spent saving lives in the presence of this vampire, speaking of guilt and honour and other words I can imagine him furiously typing, raging against the Watcher's Council that had let him down. My friend shouldn't have been disavowed - I always knew that, and these words make it clear. Poor Wesley, found dead in a Los Angeles alleyway.  
  
At the end of the file there are the few pages gleaned from recent research, linking back to the first file, and the guess that Angel, the vampire-with-a-soul, is once again Angelus; and a brief appendix touching on the current Slayer. I close the file firmly, and down the rest of my whisky as I review in my mind my task.  
  
Travers said it succinctly. "Find them. Dust them. Do not contact the Slayer or Mr Giles. Good luck." That's my brief. I think finding them - Darla, Angelus, Luc - will be easy. I think dusting them will be impossible. I am human, and they are not. I am well trained, and I'm a tall, well-built man, but the stories say so is Angelus, and he knows how to fight with all the advantages of vampiric speed and strength. I know I can't do this alone.  
  
Travers ordered me not to contact the Slayer, but disobeying the Council seems to be my main option. Staring at that patch of peeling paint, there seems to be a large tick in it, supporting my conclusion. Either I run, or I try and dust these three, in which case I'll die. I'm not ready for that, not yet. Option three is my best plan - find the Slayer and enlist her help. Together, we might stand a chance. Apart, and in a little while the Council will be one Slayer and one active agent shorter.  
  
I lock the files into my case and start to arm myself. As soon as it is dark, I'm going to find Buffy Summers, and explain everything. 


	2. The Slayer

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 2 - The Slayer  
  
Rupert Giles was listed in the phone book for Sunnydale, and with his address firmly in my memory, I set out to find his house. Standing in front of it now I can barely believe that this is the home of a Watcher - a Spanish-influenced courtyard does not seem like a Watcher sort of place. Still, this is the right number, and so I knock.  
  
Mr Giles himself opens it, one hand to his glasses and the other holding the door open.  
  
"Yes?" he says, politely, and I take my courage into my hands and contravene Council orders for the first time ever.  
  
"Rupert Giles?" I check. "My name's Mike Fletcher; I'm with the Council."  
  
He stiffens, and his eyes flick round and back to me. I hurry on.  
  
"They don't know I'm here. I was ordered not to contact you." Silence. "It's important. Vital, even."  
  
"You're not a Watcher," Mr Giles says.  
  
"Active agent."  
  
He purses his mouth, and seems to come to a decision, and holds the door open. He doesn't speak an invitation, which I expected.  
  
Inside, I look around at the neat room with books everywhere, and, surprisingly, people everywhere too. The place seems to be filled with young men and women about six years younger than me, perched on sofas and chairs and sitting on the floor. There are three girls, and I can't initially decide which one is the Slayer, though it would seem obvious that she would be the one not curled up to a boy - the redhead, therefore, dressed in a bright orange corduroy skirt and a green jumper.  
  
I am instantly proved wrong. Rupert Giles turns to the slim blonde who is sitting on the edge of an armchair filled by a tall, all-American basketball type, and says aloud, "he's Council, Buffy."  
  
"Erm ." I begin, and wave a hesitant hand at the onlookers. Mr Giles raises his eyebrows, and then smiles a thin smile.  
  
"I do apologise. I should have introduced you."  
  
"It's not that," I say, "it's that the business I am on is really with Miss Summers and yourself."  
  
"They're my friends," the Slayer says, a firm, young voice with a touch of steel in it. "They can hear whatever it is you have to say, Mr?"  
  
"Fletcher. Mike. I sort of shouldn't be here, really, but I came to the conclusion I couldn't be in Sunnydale and not come clean."  
  
"Trafficking vampires or something?" a gangly boy seated on the floor says, ironically.  
  
"Xander, shut up," the Slayer retorts, and stands, her arms folded. "Well?"  
  
"I'm here to dust some vampires," I say.  
  
"This is Sunnydale. I slay the vampires here."  
  
"They didn't want you involved," I return. "Mr Travers was quite specific."  
  
"Yeah, well, he would be," the Slayer says. Mr Giles meets my eye.  
  
"Mr Travers and Miss Summers do not get along," he explains.  
  
"I got that," I agree. "The thing is, Miss Summers, they're particular vampires. It's complicated."  
  
"We've done complicated here," the Slayer responds.  
  
I give up, and pull the files out of my bag, and pass them to her. She takes them, and opens the first one up, and then looks at me.  
  
"She's dead. Dusted." Mr Giles comes over and glances at the portrait of Darla.  
  
"She was resurrected," I say. "By a law firm, Wolfram and Hart, in Los Angeles."  
  
"LA?" Now Buffy Summers' eyes are narrowed. "Giles, call Wesley."  
  
I take a deep breath. "Wesley's dead. He died three weeks ago. Three vampires, they say."  
  
Mr Giles takes his glasses off, and sits down.  
  
"Then why . why hasn't ." The Slayer looks at the large young man in the armchair beside her, and then at me, and then slowly she turns to the next file, flips past the picture, and reads the biographical notes before passing them to the redhead who has so far said nothing.  
  
"Council sources," I say, "think that the third member of that group - the other file, Miss Summers - was responsible for casting the spell that removed Angelus' soul. They weren't sure of the exact details."  
  
"Which other vampire?" the Slayer asks.  
  
"His name's Luc Tarpeau," I say. "He's French."  
  
"I've heard very little about him," Mr Giles says, after a moment. "Perhaps ."  
  
"If it was a spell we could try and put it back," the redhead says suddenly. "I kept Miss Calendar's notes. I bet we could find an Orb ."  
  
"Willow, I won't let you try that again," the Slayer puts in. "Not again."  
  
"I agree. It's too risky," Mr Giles adds.  
  
"Thirded!" the boy addressed earlier as Xander calls.  
  
"How sure are you this happened?" the Slayer asks me. "How sure?"  
  
I am forced to admit that we're not fully certain, and she relaxes. "Maybe something else killed Wes," she suggests.  
  
The redhead, Willow, looks up from the file. "I wasn't going to mention it," she says, quietly, "but I haven't heard from Cordy in a few weeks. She usually emails me, once a week, and she hasn't. I guessed they were busy."  
  
"I always said never trust him!" Xander says suddenly.  
  
"Xander, that's hardly relevant now," Mr Giles replies.  
  
"Isn't it?" Xander stands up. "Why isn't it? If Buffy had killed him last time this happened, we wouldn't be here now."  
  
"It's not that simple," the Slayer says, softly. "Would you kill Anya, if she turned back into a demon?"  
  
I swivel round and stare at the sharp-faced girl against whose leg Xander was leaning. "I wasn't a vampire," she says, indignantly.  
  
"You killed people, though," the Slayer says. "Probably more than Angel . Angelus ."  
  
"Only when other people asked me," the girl clarifies.  
  
"Demon?" I manage to get out, in the minute pause.  
  
Mr Giles sighs again. "Anya was until quite recently a vengeance demon. Anyanka. Protector of spurned women."  
  
A memory springs to my mind, a story-telling session in a pub near Headquarters one night. "That Anyanka?" I say. "I've heard of you."  
  
Anyanka looks ridiculously pleased, and lifts her chin up. "Good."  
  
"But . you're human now?" I check.  
  
"Stuck like this. He -" she points at Mr Giles, "smashed my amulet in another dimension. But it has its good points, being human." She smiles at Xander, and reminds me of my grandmother's cat when it is being stroked. No doubt of the nature of the relationship between them.  
  
"Moving swiftly on," says Mr Giles, "to matters at hand. Xander, the past is the past. What we are dealing with now is the present. I suggest we speak to Spike tomorrow."  
  
"If he's seen Angel," the Slayer says, "I swear I'll dust him."  
  
"Are we talking about William the Bloody?" I ask, ever more confused.  
  
"Unfortunately, yes," Buffy Summers confirms. "He can't hurt anyone. Got a chip in his head. Thanks to Riley."  
  
She smiles down fondly at the all-American type who has so far said nothing, and he smiles back up at her. I can see there is a lot more explaining to be done, things that the Council know nothing about, and decide to tackle Rupert Giles at some point.  
  
"I'll go and ask Spike tomorrow," the Slayer continues. "For now, we all go home, and nobody goes out alone at night unarmed or alone." She fixes big green eyes on me. "Can you fight?"  
  
"Yes, Miss Summers," I say.  
  
"Remember those three who came for Faith last year?" Mr Giles says to the Slayer, who nods. "They were in Mr Fletcher's division of the Council."  
  
"Hmm. Well, I hope you fight better than them, then," Buffy Summers says. I think of Weatherby, Smith and Collins, respectively confined to a wheelchair, retired, and on restricted duty, and remember that this small girl in front of me reduced at least one of them to that state. Then I remember that Angelus was responsible for Weatherby's paralysis, and a shiver runs down my spine.  
  
"I can fight well enough," I reiterate.  
  
"Good. Then you and Giles walk Willow home. Riley and I'll take Xander and Anya to Xander's place, and then mine. We reconvene here at ten in the morning." I marvel at her organisation. "Mom!" she says suddenly, and leaps for the telephone, dialling and tapping her fingers until it is answered. "Mom . yeah, I'm on my way home. Just, if Angel shows, don't invite him in, okay? It's important. Tell Dawn. Yes, I'm fine. Don't invite anyone in. I'll be home soon. Bye!" She puts the telephone down and rolls her eyes. "Parents. Okay, Giles?"  
  
"Be careful," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. She smiles, and the stern Slayer-look is gone, replaced by something tender.  
  
"I will. You too. Call when you're back here."  
  
Rupert Giles nods, and collects a jacket from where it hangs beside the door. "Willow, Mr Fletcher - ready? Are you armed?" he asks me.  
  
I swing my coat back to show him the stake and small battleaxe I have, and he nods, satisfied. Opening the door, he lets Xander and Anyanka, the Slayer and her tall boyfriend, go first, and then the redheaded Willow and myself, and finally locks the door carefully. Outside the apartment block we split up, and the other four head off in the opposite direction.  
  
None of us say very much as Mr Giles pushes his red convertible through the night. Few people are out on the streets, and we each glance around far too much. I look particularly at the darker corners. On the lengthy drive to Willow's lodgings, we pass no less than three cemeteries, but no vampires. We see the girl inside the building where she lives, apparently some sort of university hall of residence, and Mr Giles turns the car to return to his apartment. He pauses with a hand on the handbrake.  
  
"Where are you staying?" I tell him, and he frowns. "Better stay with me."  
  
"I hope the Council don't find out," I worry aloud.  
  
"You've already contravened direct orders," Mr Giles says. "Now you really should try and be safe. We'll go and fetch your things, and you can have my sofa."  
  
I thank him, and he waves it off, starting the car up, and we drive away in silence. 


	3. Nightmares

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's notes: I really don't know where this is coming from. It really is pouring out. Odd.  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 3 - Nightmares  
  
Mr Giles passes me a cup of tea and sits down in the armchair with his own. He looks tired, but picks up the Breton's file and begins to leaf through it.  
  
"I'm glad you came to us," he says, after a few pages of silent reading.  
  
"I . I suppose I just knew I wasn't going to be able to do it alone," I admit. "I got scared."  
  
"Highly sensible of you," he approves. "Not that I'm happy for Buffy to fight him, again, but you and she together, with some help from us, might stand a chance."  
  
"Mr Giles," I begin, but he waves a hand and interrupts.  
  
"For God's sakes, call me Giles, or Rupert. Nobody calls me Mr anymore."  
  
"Call me Mike, then," I return. "Well, then, if you don't mind me asking, what is Angelus really like?"  
  
Giles sips his tea, and then carefully puts it down on the coffee table nearby. "I don't suppose you mean Angel, the ensouled version?"  
  
"Both, I suppose," I say, surprised to discover that I do mean both Angel and Angelus, if that is how we are to distinguish the two.  
  
"You've read the files?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"There's not much more. In the time between Angel coming to Sunnydale and him . losing his soul, I did come to like him. To feel sorry for him. I expect you've encountered many vampires before, Mike, and . and most of them would be fairly unintelligent." I nod, and he continues. "Despite what Angel said about a rather misspent youth, he is intelligent, and he knows a lot about many things. With his soul, he cared deeply for Buffy, and risked his own existence for her many times. I cannot say I app - approved of the relationship, but I understood what they felt for each other.  
  
"When he turned, I was rather obtuse." Giles frowns at himself. "It took me a while to realise what had taken his soul away from him . is that in the file?"  
  
"That's in," I agree, and he looks rather relieved.  
  
"Good. I couldn't work it out for a while. And then ." he falters, and purses his lips, and takes a deep breath. "Then we began to feel what it was like to have a vampire such as Angelus chasing us, with all his cunning and all his mind fixed on tormenting us and distracting Buffy. It worked admirably, I must admit. He began to stalk us, leaving sketches in Buffy's bedroom . he killed Willow's goldfish and left them for her." There is a long pause, and I say nothing. "Then . then there was J - Jenny. I don't think I knew what it was to hate someone, or something, until she died. I was a fool, nearly got myself killed."  
  
Giles picks up his tea, and sips it again, and again puts it down with the utmost care. "And then, there was Acathla. He sent a gang of vampires to fetch me - that was when Kendra died."  
  
"The other Slayer?" I check, and Giles nods.  
  
"She was a good girl. Rather too obsessive about her calling, but I understand that was mainly her parents' fault. I understand Drusilla killed her." A flash of something flickers across Giles's usually calm face. "I was knocked out, and when I woke up, I was in his mansion. It's a big, unfinished place, quite horrific . I think my legs and arms were bound. You know, when I looked at him, I expected to see Angel - Buffy's strange boyfriend, the person I'd spent hours talking to - but I didn't. He looked quite different. Something in the eyes." Giles links his fingers together, fiddling with them. "He wanted information . he used every means he knew to get it, including Jenny." He pauses, and finishes in a rush. "Then somehow Xander found me and rescued me, and then I spent the summer looking for Buffy, who'd run to Los Angeles."  
  
He finishes his tea in a gulp, and coughs.  
  
"I'm sorry I asked, sir," I say. "Really I am."  
  
"No - if you're hunting him, you should know."  
  
I decide to change the subject. "I was surprised to see so many people here tonight."  
  
"I thought all the Council knew and were scandalised," Giles says, brightening up a little. "A Slayer with friends."  
  
"They all know?"  
  
"They all know. Xander and Willow found out quite by chance, a long time ago. Anya can't really help knowing. Riley . I don't entirely trust Riley, but last year the army had a kind of research project here, trying to neutralise demons. A terrific mess-up. Really quite nasty. They did get Spike, though, and put a chip in his head. Rather useful."  
  
"And her mother?"  
  
"Oh, Joyce - Mrs Summers - found out at the time of Acathla. She's never really forgiven me for keeping a part of her daughter's life a secret."  
  
"Don't you worry about them all?" I ask, fascinated.  
  
"Yes. Although Willow is becoming a remarkable witch, and Xander an excellent fighter. I worry about Buffy the most."  
  
I remember something I had overheard at Headquarters. "They say she's possibly one of the best Slayers ever."  
  
Giles smiles, fondly. "She is. Of course, she can be infuriating, but most of the time she's as brave and as skilled a Slayer as any Watcher could wish for." He finishes his tea and holds out a hand for my empty cup. "Another?"  
  
"No, thanks."  
  
"Tired?" he asks.  
  
"Yes, a little."  
  
"We should probably start saving on sleep. I'd imagine we'll need it." He stands, and leaves the teacups on the kitchen counter. "Sleep well, Mike."  
  
"You too."  
  
Giles goes upstairs, and I heard various rustlings and the running of water before the light goes out. I kick off boots and take off my shirt and trousers, and slide under the blanket Giles has provided for me on the sofa. It's a little too short, but I've had worse and at least this house is comfortable and warm and safe. I slip into sleep and welcome oblivion.  
  
I am awakened halfway through the night by a scream - an unholy, terrifying scream from upstairs that drags me immediately out of my bed, searching for a weapon. The scream comes again, and this time I can make out a "No . please, stop!" It is Giles's voice, and I take the stairs two at a time, clutching a stake.  
  
He is alone in his tidy bachelor bedroom, the sheets rumpled around him and sweat beading his forehead. Clearly a nightmare. He screams again, tossing and turning in the bed, and I reach out and shake him.  
  
"Giles! Rupert! Wake up!"  
  
His eyes snap open, and he stares at me - or through me, before moving fast, knocking the stake out of my hand before I can react. It's an astonishing move for someone who does not know where they are or who I am, and my body wants to return the attack. Instead, I use my heavier body to pin him down.  
  
"Giles, it's me, it's Mike . You had a nightmare. Wake up. Giles?"  
  
After a moment, his body relaxes and I let him go. His eyes focus on me, and gradually realisation returns.  
  
"Mike? What happened?"  
  
"You had a nightmare, I think," I say, perching on the end of the bed. "Woke me up, with a scream."  
  
He frowns, and then rubs a hand across his face. "God. Yes, I did . horrible." He looks at me. "This time, we get him. No spells, no trying to return that soul. We stake him, his sire, the Frenchman."  
  
"We'll do that," I agree. There is no doubt about what he was dreaming of, and I do not ask for a confirmation. "Will you sleep again?"  
  
"I'll try. Will you?"  
  
I nod. I know I will sleep again. It's a skill I have had to pick up over the last few years out in the field. You sleep when you can, because it might be a long time before you will next be able to lie down and close your eyes in safety.  
  
Giles smiles a wan smile at me. "Go on."  
  
I leave him rearranging his sheets, and lie back down on the sofa. Before I drift away, I see the glimmer of light from behind closed eyelids, and hear the crinkle of pages being turned, and know that Giles will not go back to sleep this night. 


	4. The Vampire

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 4 - The Vampire  
  
The Slayer kicks in the door of the crypt with one decisive blow, and we move in. I have assembled my faithful crossbow, brought in pieces from England, and now there is a bolt fitted, ready to be fired. Giles, next to me, carries a small battle-axe, which he dug out of a chest this morning before we left.  
  
The crypt is dark apart from the sunlight streaming through the broken door, and that light illuminates the bleached blond hair of the figure lying, apparently asleep, on the top of a tomb in the centre of the crypt. Rather incongruously, there is a battered armchair and a television nearby, and the sleeper has a blanket over his body.  
  
"Spike!" says the Slayer, and the figure sits up.  
  
"Slayer?" He rubs a hand over his eyes. "Watcher? And who's that?"  
  
"Get up," Buffy orders, and fixes him with a stare until he does so, pulling on a pair of faded black jeans lying over the neighbouring tomb, and shrugging on an equally faded black t-shirt.  
  
"Well? Better be a bloody good reason for waking someone from his beauty sleep," he says, lighting up a cigarette. He has a vaguely Cockney accent.  
  
The Slayer moves quickly, and has him pinned against the wall before another word can be spoken. The cigarette lies burning on the floor, and silently Giles stamps it out.  
  
"Have you seen Angel?" she demands, her hand locked around his neck and a stake at his chest.  
  
"Peaches? Not for a year." He raises his eyebrows at her. "Fallen out with Captain America, have you, Slayer?"  
  
She lets out a sharp breath and releases him. "Riley and I are still together. This has nothing to do with him. Have you seen Angel, Spike?"  
  
Spike - William the Bloody - shakes his head and lights another cigarette. "You know the poof and I don't get along. Why?"  
  
Giles sighs, and steps in. "Mike, this is Spike. Spike, Mike Fletcher. From the Council." Spike eyes me warily, and I lower the crossbow. "Mike brought some disturbing news. We've heard that Angel has had his soul taken away again, that Darla has been resurrected and remade, and that the pair of them are travelling with someone called, erm, Luc Tarpeau. The Council thinks it was he who cast the spell."  
  
"Luc?" Spike says, taking a deep draw on his cigarette. "He never let me know he was back in the States."  
  
"So you know him?" Buffy asks.  
  
"Yeah, I know him," Spike returns. "Clever bastard. Used to be the apple of Angelus' eye, at one point. Saw him last in Chicago, the thirties, and got the odd letter from him since then."  
  
"So you get on?" Giles says.  
  
Spike shrugs. "Okay, yeah. He's a reasonable guy, for one of us."  
  
"So why would he have turned Angel?" Buffy snaps. "If he's so reasonable?"  
  
"Slayer, you're missing somethin' here, aren't you?" the vampire says calmly. "No vamp in his right mind would stand by and watch Angelus with a soul without wanting to do something. I tried to kill him. Luc tried to kill the soul. Glad to hear he succeeded."  
  
Buffy folds her arms and looks at the floor, and Giles frowns. There is silence.  
  
"Shall I tell him you're looking for him, when he gets here?" Spike questions, a smile playing on his lips. "You can have that battle all over again. Good to watch, that was."  
  
Giles looks ready to dust the vampire now, but the Slayer lifts her head and shakes it in her Watcher's direction. "Giles ." She turns to Spike. "When he comes, tell me. I want to know."  
  
"What'll stop me from not telling you?" Spike asks. I am wondering this myself.  
  
"You need me to protect you," Buffy points out, and I recall the explanation of how Spike's chip works.  
  
Spike goes to the door, and standing in its shadows gestures towards the sunlight outside. "Not when Angelus gets here, I won't. He'll protect me. Thanks for the news, Slayer. See you around."  
  
Now it is Giles's turn to shake his head at Buffy, and she lowers her stake and glares at Spike. For a moment, there is palpable tension, and then she leads the way out of the crypt. The door is banged shut behind us.  
  
I take aim at a tree-trunk and fire the bolt still loaded into my crossbow. The Slayer lets out a short, bitter laugh at the act, and then throws her stake after the bolt. It bounces off the trunk and lands in the grass. Together, we cross to collect our weapons.  
  
"So, it seems we have lost a potential ally," Giles says, as we begin to walk back towards the town centre.  
  
"I thought," Buffy says, her tone low, "that he'd be with us."  
  
"He's a vampire," I point out.  
  
The Slayer sighs. "Last time . he was with us."  
  
"That was last time," Giles reminds her gently. "This is this time. You can't regard Spike as a friend, Buffy, you know that. Mike's right - he's a vampire, and his loyalties will lie with the members of his line. You must be prepared to stake all of them."  
  
She looks at us, her huge eyes glistening. "I don't know if I can, Giles."  
  
"I didn't think I could," I put in. "That's why I came to you. Maybe we can do it together."  
  
"Maybe." She straightens, and manages a small smile. "Maybe. You dusted that tree pretty well."  
  
I smile back, glowing inside at the praise from the Slayer, and thinking that I'm starting to feel fond of her, instead of simply in awe of her. For the last five years I have been taught that the Slayer - not necessarily Buffy Summers, but the figure of the Slayer - is almost a divine figure, someone to look up to and respect. I wasn't expecting to find a slim, beautiful blonde girl with friends and an attitude. I don't know what I was expecting, actually. I must have had a picture of somebody rather like Superwoman in my mind, and how wrong I was. I decide that I like the real Slayer much more; that respect is still a factor in the equation, but true human emotion now plays a part. If it comes to it, I will not let her be the one who has to thrust a stake into the heart of someone she once loved. If it kills me, I will dust Angelus - now, the oaths I took, to give my life for the Council and the Slayer, begin to make sense.  
  
Buffy and Giles start to discuss plans for the evening, and I listen with half an ear, my thoughts running on inside my head. I wonder what Wesley thought of his Slayer, when he arrived in this little town fresh from Watcher training and full of the importance of being activated. When we said goodbye to each other, he was so excited but trying to hide it, he had cartons of books packed and addressed and ready to send across the Atlantic. He promised to write, and he did write, but the tone of his letters changed from positive to negative very quickly. He spoke of a Slayer who would not obey him and an ex-Watcher who would not cooperate; of a group around the Slayer who should have been kept away; and another Slayer, Faith, who constantly eyed him in a 'disconcerting manner'. Once or twice, he mentioned the vampire with a soul who had within days of his arrival saved his life.  
  
The letters petered out following Wesley's dismissal by the Council, although I did receive a few from Los Angeles. The last one was three months ago, an enthusiastic missive telling of prophecy and celebration. It was the old excited Wesley I had said goodbye to in London over a year and a half before.  
  
"Tonight, the Bronze, then," Buffy says, her voice cutting through my reflections. "Me and Mike and the gang. You won't come, Giles?"  
  
"I'll research spells," Giles replies. "It would be useful to find out what this Breton used on Angel."  
  
I push Wesley to the back of my mind, and start to concentrate on the job at hand. I have a feeling it will be a long day. 


	5. The Bronze

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's notes: I'm going with shortish chapters for this one, and frequent updates. I trust you all approve.  
  
Imzadi asked whether there would be a Lindsey sighting in this one - I don't know. I wasn't planning on it, but stranger things have happened and he may turn up unexpectedly.  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 5 - The Bronze  
  
The Slayer and her friends have told me that the Bronze, this warehouse in front of us now, is the only place to go in Sunnydale. I'm glad I didn't grow up here. There is music coming from inside - something indie, possibly live - and lots of young people. Younger than me, though not much, really. We smile at the bouncer, a big, burly man with a moustache, and file inside.  
  
The Bronze inside is actually nicer than the outside. There are lots of comfortable seats, a bar, and a dance floor in front of the stage. The band playing seem to be enjoying themselves, and the atmosphere is lively. We find ourselves a space to sit and settle down.  
  
"Mochas?" says Willow, and for a moment there is silence.  
  
"Mochas," Xander replies. "Make mine a skinny one."  
  
"You like cream on yours," the redhead points out, and Xander nods.  
  
"But Cordy liked skinnies. And . well, I just want a skinny mocha, for Cordy."  
  
"Make that two," Buffy says, putting her hand up.  
  
"Three," Anya adds, and then says to Xander, "I don't see why you're still hung up about that girl."  
  
Xander pats the demon's - no, she's not a demon - the girl's arm, and murmurs, "Ahn, she was a friend, all right. A friend who was an enemy."  
  
"I can't believe we're talking about Cordy in the past tense," Willow says, her brow creased. "Mike, what do you want?"  
  
"Beer?" I suggest, and Willow assents.  
  
"Drinks coming up!" she says, and disappears towards the bar. Buffy leans in closer to me.  
  
"This is major-league vamp hunting ground," she says.  
  
"Lots of young people having fun?" I return. "I can see why it would be."  
  
The Slayer lowers her eyes. "And An . Angel knows, and I think he'll come here at some point."  
  
"So lots of time here?"  
  
She smiles. "Probably."  
  
Willow comes back with our drinks on a tray. "Beer for Mike, mochas for us." She serves out the drinks and sits down next to Buffy.  
  
"To Cordelia," Xander says, lifting his mug, and we clink drinking vessels.  
  
"To Cordelia," I echo, and drink. Good cold American lager. I take another long gulp - I need it after today - and say, "what was Cordelia like?"  
  
Instantly, the Slayer, Willow and Xander launch into a list of attributes, few of them positive, and a number of anecdotes, most of which portray this Cordelia as a vacuous cheerleader. But finally, they run out of amusing stories, and fall silent for a moment. Then Buffy says, "she'd changed, last time I saw her. She cared about stuff. She cared about Angel."  
  
"I guess I was happy with her," Xander muses aloud, and ducks Anya's blow. "Ahn!"  
  
"I liked writing to her," Willow says. "She wrote fun emails. She did change."  
  
"I want her to call us," Buffy continues, staring into her coffee. "Tomorrow, and say that it's all been a horrible mistake, and that their computer was broken or something. Or that they were on a case, and . and that Angel's Angel."  
  
They all look at each other, and I feel isolated. I swallow down the last centimetre of beer, and raise my glass. "Anyone for another?"  
  
Anya nods. "Get me a beer too. If they're going to be depressing, I want to get drunk."  
  
I suppress a smile, and repeat her order. "Miss Summers - Buffy, I mean? Sorry. Habit."  
  
"I'm good," she says.  
  
"Can I have a soda?" Willow asks.  
  
"I'll go with the beer thing," Xander says. I nod, and stand to leave them.  
  
I weave my way across the club, through groups of teenagers in their best clothes, flirting, bickering, gossiping. I feel old, suddenly, and jaded with my experiences in the underworld these children know nothing about; and then I glance back to the group I have left and reflect that those young people know more than I do, and they are five years younger than I.  
  
I reach the bar, and order the drinks, and pay, slipping my wallet back into my hip pocket before picking the glasses up and starting to make my way back towards the sofa. But I stumble on a carpet edge and trip, sending beer and soda flying. Most of it hits the velvet-covered back of a young man close to me, who turns around with raised eyebrows.  
  
"God!" I say. "Sorry about that . this carpet ." I bend from picking up a glass and look into the young man's face, and freeze. I know that face. I've spent most of the last few days studying it, learning it. I swallow, and manage a grin. "Is your jacket okay?"  
  
"It'll clean," Luc Tarpeau says, shrugging. He has a light French accent and a soft voice, and there's something glinting in his grey eyes. He hands me another glass. "You'd better get new drinks."  
  
"Thanks. Can I get you something?" I ask.  
  
The Breton smiles, and it is an utterly charming smile. I know that if I were female, I'd be bowled over by it - it looks disarmingly open. He brushes a loose tendril of dark hair back over an ear. "I don't think I'm thirsty, at present. But thank you for the offer. I might take you up on it if we bump into each other again."  
  
"I shall make very certain not to!" I laugh, my stomach twisting inside. "Are you sure that jacket'll clean up all right?"  
  
"I'm sure. Absolutely."  
  
"Good." I lean across the bar and place the order again. "Well. Have a good evening."  
  
"You too." The Breton nods at me, and then turns and blends away into the crowds. I get the new drinks, and more carefully this time, carry them across the club.  
  
"They're here," I say, putting the drinks down and sitting. My legs have suddenly turned to jelly. "They're here."  
  
Buffy is instantly on the alert, glancing around. "Where?"  
  
"I don't know. I only saw the Frenchman. I think he was alone. I split beer on him."  
  
Xander chokes back a laugh, though his face is as pale as I think mine must be. "What was he like?" Buffy asks.  
  
"Polite. Charming. Young. Good-looking. Wearing a green velvet coat, hair tied back."  
  
"So vampish," Buffy says. "So out of date."  
  
"Nineteenth century out of date," I point out. "He looked good. But surely, if he's here, then ."  
  
"Then Angel's here," the Slayer agrees. Xander downs his beer in two gulps. "Right. Mike, can you call Giles, let him know? Xander, Will, Anya, you go home and stay there. We'll go patrolling."  
  
"Are we okay letting them know I'm with you?" I ask, concerned about this point. It has been bothering me all day.  
  
"Let's let them know that it's not just me they have to deal with," Buffy says determinedly. "I hope you're up to it."  
  
I nod, and try to look up to it. Inside, I am wondering again whether I am. That glint in Luc Tarpeau's eyes is still shining into my own. I want to run, for the thousandth time since arriving at the Hellmouth. Instead I pull out my mobile and dial Giles's number, and try to prepare myself for patrolling with the Slayer. 


	6. Patrol

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's notes: Many thanks for the comments so far. Much appreciated. Lindsey seems to be popular - I might give him a cameo. Anyway, here's the next chapter; enjoy.  
  
  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 6 - Patrol  
  
Buffy bends down and closes the girl's eyes. "Five minutes, and we miss this," she says bitterly. "Come on."  
  
We leave her behind with a backward glance. I wonder aloud why people have not noticed the vampires and the demons in this town, and the Slayer shrugs.  
  
"People are blind. But they can surprise you." She tells me about her graduating class from high school, and the gift they gave her for being an unofficial class protector. It is a sweet story, and she clearly holds it and her peers in affection. I am about to comment, when two figures ahead of us are caught in the orange glow of a streetlamp.  
  
"There." I point, as they fade into the darkness again.  
  
"Who was it?"  
  
"I think it was the Breton again," I say, unsure again. "He had long hair . Angelus doesn't have long hair, does he?"  
  
"Not the last time I looked, no," Buffy replies. "Short and spiky. Okay, let's try and catch them." We quicken our pace and stop talking. Buffy is twirling a stake in her hand. Mine is in a pocket - I rather think that if I get it out I'll drop it from sheer nervousness. I don't know why I am so nervous. These are not the first vampires I have hunted and killed. Perhaps it is the presence, calm and concentrated, of the Slayer beside me.  
  
I give up trying to think straight and work to keep up with Buffy's determined stride. Now the pair we are following is only a streetlamp ahead, about one hundred metres. Buffy is twirling her stake faster, and quickens her pace another notch.  
  
Ahead of us, the two men pause at the corner of the block. Across the street there is a gate and a sign. Buffy stands on tiptoe and whispers, "Restfield Cemetery." We wait, in the shadows cast by a tall hedge.  
  
"Where the hell are they?" The voice carries - not that of the Frenchman, but slightly deeper and possessing a strong American accent. Buffy frowns.  
  
"The important thing is that we are on time," comes the reply, and now I know that we are following Luc Tarpeau. His companion has us both mystified, and I exchange shrugs with Buffy. She looks ready to go and stake the Breton now, and her mouth is set. She looks at me, and takes one step, and then freezes.  
  
The cemetery gate swings open with a squeak, and two more people emerge from the grounds, closing the gate behind them. One is tall, and broadly built, the other slim and feminine. Buffy takes a deep breath, and clutches my sleeve, and this tells me even if I had not already worked it out that this, at last, is Angelus.  
  
"Luc." The greeting is cursory. "Had a good evening?"  
  
"Ça va. Someone spoilt my coat."  
  
"Such a pretty coat." This last voice is sweet and light and barely carries to our ears. The Slayer frowns.  
  
"I hope you killed them." Angelus again, uncaring.  
  
"In the Bronze. Too many people around. If I see him again, I might do."  
  
"Who cares about the crowds?" the first voice says. "I say kill 'em all."  
  
"An excellent idea, if it weren't for the attention-drawing factor," the woman's voice says. "I thought you'd learned quicker than that, Charles."  
  
Angelus cuts in. "Gunn . Darla . now is not the time. If we've all eaten, I thought we'd go to see Willy, and let him know I'm back."  
  
"We're back, darling," Darla says, and Angelus' laugh, even from a distance, makes my hair stand on end.  
  
"We're back. And I can't wait to see Buffy's face."  
  
From around the bush I see him link arms with Darla, and the four of them stroll off, talking cheerfully. I am glad I cannot hear their conversation. Buffy throws her stake on the ground with a sudden, impetuous movement of rage. I look at her, and see with astonishment that tears are trickling down her cheeks. The Slayer, so efficient and organised, is crying.  
  
I pat her awkwardly on the back, and she sniffs loudly. "Thanks."  
  
"What do you want to do?" I ask, not sure what we can do.  
  
Buffy pulls out a crumpled tissue and wipes her eyes. "Tomorrow I'll go and see Willy, and see what . what they had to say."  
  
"Who's Willy?"  
  
"Oh, he runs a bar for demons. Gets money off them for giving them drinks, and money off us for telling me about them. He's scared of Angel." I button up my coat, and nod to myself. I can see why, and all I've seen is a dark silhouette. Buffy seems to pull herself together. "Right now, how do you feel about killing something?"  
  
I agree that this seems a good idea, and she leads me into the cemetery. We wander, somewhat aimlessly, each occupied with our own thoughts, until a movement catches my eye. The Slayer sees it at the same time, and we turn as one and purposefully stride over to the grave.  
  
Buffy taps the shoulder the figure sitting on the ground next to a simple wooden grave-marker. "Excuse me?" The woman turns around, and the Slayer nods in satisfaction at her distorted, vampiric features. "Do you mind if I put this through your heart?" She waves the stake, and the vampire springs up and attacks, clumsily. Buffy sidesteps, and flips the creature neatly over a nearby cherub, and follows that up with a spin-kick that sends the vampire flying once more. I watch, in interest and astonishment at her speed and her grace. It is really rather a special thing to observe, this lethal combination, and I get lost in it as the Slayer and the vampire lead their dance around the graveyard. Buffy does not seem to want to kill the vampire outright, and I wonder at that momentarily before being distracted myself by the hand and arm that are emerging from the new grave beside me.  
  
The fledgling, a young man when he had been alive, clambers on to the ground, stands up slowly, and brushes dust off the smart suit he had been buried in. I get out my stake, and go in for the attack.  
  
The resulting fight is short but satisfying, and as I turn from staking the newborn vampire, Buffy is brushing ashes off her own coat. "Nice one."  
  
"Thank you," I say, pleased with her approval.  
  
"I feel much better," she says, beginning to head towards the gates. "But don't tell Giles it took me so long to dust that one, all right? I just . I wanted to work off some aggression."  
  
"Sometimes you have to," I reply, and, after a pause, tell her of the day we received the news of Wesley's death. She listens in silence as I speak of the disbelief and then anger I felt, and how I went down to the gym at Headquarters and spent an hour pummelling the stuffing out of a punch bag, trying to lift as much weight as I possibly could. "I don't think I knew what I was doing," I finish. "I just felt so furious, that he'd died so far from home, nobody beside him, disowned by the Council. It wasn't fair. Wes was a good man."  
  
"I never really got to know him properly," Buffy admits, pushing her hands into her pockets. "I didn't want someone to take over from Giles. And Wesley was an awful Watcher, you know?"  
  
"Over-enthusiastic?" I suggest, and she nods. "He meant well, Buffy. Really he did. And I think he'd begun to change, to care, to grow. His last letter was the most cheerful I'd had for a while." I feel my hands balling into fists. "It's not right, what happened."  
  
After a moment, Buffy smiles at me. "We'll finish this off, you and me, Mike. You can take revenge for Wesley, and I'll do my job, and then we'll show the Council what's what. Angel, Darla, the French guy, and whoever the other one is - we'll finish them all."  
  
"I hope so," I say. "I really hope so." 


	7. Willy's Place

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 7 - Willy's Place  
  
I did not sleep well last night. I know I dreamt, but luckily the images of my dreams are not with me on this gorgeous Californian morning. Buffy has taken the day off classes again, and she, her tall boyfriend Riley, and I are going to Willy's. Giles and Willow are hard at work researching still, Willow tapping away on her laptop watched by her girlfriend, Tara. I met Tara after breakfast, a shy, slightly heavy girl with a pretty smile and adoration in her eyes when she looks at Willow. I liked her at once. Buffy explained that Tara and Willow met at a Wicca group at their university, and that Tara is in fact a very powerful witch. This should surprise me, but does not. Willow and Tara's magic is clearly an important element in the group dynamic surrounding the Slayer, and a useful one.  
  
I am less sure about Riley. He seems pleasant enough, and Buffy proudly told me last night that he can fight - that I don't doubt, he's taller than I am - but he seems too ordinary to be with the Slayer. Bland might be the word. Of her other friends, Xander seems to be the only one without any special talent, but he is much more open and I think that perhaps Xander's humour helps keep them all together as much as Buffy's fighting or Willow's spells. Riley doesn't seem to add much at all, but Buffy is clearly besotted with her soldier and at the moment, as we stroll along the main street, I am feeling rather like a third cog.  
  
Buffy drops Riley's hand as we brush through the awful beaded curtain and into Willy's bar. It smells metallically of blood and alcohol. There is a skinny man occupied in tidying up, sweeping the floor (a large pile of dust, broken glass and a smashed chair) with a melancholy expression on his face. The expression fills with panic as he sees Buffy.  
  
"Not you as well."  
  
"Hiya, Willy," the Slayer says. "Did you have a visit last night?"  
  
Willy doesn't answer, instead looking past her to Riley and I. "What's he doin' here?" he demands, gesturing towards Riley. "And who's the other guy?"  
  
"A friend," Buffy says, "and Riley's staying. Did you have a visit last night?"  
  
Willy leans on his broom and stitches a conspiratorial expression onto his rodent-like face. "Might have done." Buffy takes a step forwards, and he nods. "Yeah, yeah. Your old flame."  
  
"What did he say?"  
  
"He killed a couple a' vamps." Willy prods at the dust with his broom. "Broke a glass. Used a chair as a stake. Said he was back in town and meant business." The barman pauses, and adds, "He didn't seem like, you know, Angel."  
  
"That's because he's not," Buffy says. "He lost the soul."  
  
"Shit," says Willy, which seems to be appropriate. "And those other vamps with him?"  
  
Buffy counts off on her fingers. "Darla. Heard of her?"  
  
Willy's face shows us he has.  
  
"Someone called Luc something-or-other. And the other one. All bad news, Willy."  
  
"So whadda I do?" Willy asks, spreading his hands dramatically and dropping the broom. A cloud of dust flies up in the air. "Not let them in?"  
  
"I'd say that would be a bad idea," Riley says to the room at large.  
  
"Just let me know what they're planning," Buffy says. "I'll do my best to protect you. And don't tell them what we're doing."  
  
Willy snorts, and Buffy sighs and pulls out an envelope. "Hundred bucks, Willy. Don't talk to Angel."  
  
"Sure thing," Willy grins, catching the envelope and looking inside greedily. Buffy shakes her head in despair, and we leave. The bright sunlight is blinding after the gloom of the bar, and I blink several times. Buffy is yawning.  
  
"Gah. I need sleep."  
  
"You shouldn't stay so late patrolling," Riley says in a concerned voice.  
  
"We weren't late. I couldn't sleep," Buffy replies.  
  
"I hope you're not taking this all too seriously," Riley says, taking her hand again. "I mean, yeah, he's not good news, but you've taken down some bad vamps in your time."  
  
Buffy smiles sadly and shakes her head. "This is different, Riley."  
  
He looks unconvinced, and I make a mental note to show him the files later on.  
  
The Slayer pushes open the door of Giles's magic shop - a new acquisition, apparently. It's a large shop, full of curious occult items, musty books and a smell of incense and herbs. There are books open all over the round table by the cash desk, and Giles, Willow and Tara are deep in a discussion. We cross the floor and join them, and Willow looks up.  
  
"Hi. How was Willy?"  
  
"We bribed him," Buffy says. She glances at me. "Can you reclaim that, d'you think?"  
  
"I can try," I answer.  
  
"We've narrowed down the spells the Breton might have used," Willow says, pushing books in Buffy's direction. "Giles thinks it's the one with the silver stake, I think it's the one with the circles and the vessel-thing."  
  
"The first is much simpler," Giles says, wearily, obviously repeating something he has said before. "I've read nothing which . which suggests that he is an experienced magician. Your spell is too complicated."  
  
Willow makes a face at him.  
  
"He seemed fairly intelligent," I say aloud, musing on the vampire I had met the night before. "And surely he'd know Latin to be able to say the spell?"  
  
Willow looks grateful, and taps the book. "See?"  
  
Giles takes off his glasses, and puts them on the table. "Perhaps you're right. But neither spell is reversible, in any case, so we are no better off."  
  
Silence falls. Willow leafs through a book half-heartedly, and Buffy examines her fingernails.  
  
The stillness is suddenly broken by the ring of my mobile phone, and I frown and pull it out. "Mike Fletcher."  
  
"Mike. How's it going?" Quentin Travers. I make a 'be silent!' gesture to Giles and the others, and move to a corner.  
  
"Well, they're here, sir," I say.  
  
"Good, good," Travers says, and I think of retorting that no, it isn't good, and would he like to try killing off Angelus for me?  
  
"There are four of them," I content myself in replying. "Angelus, Darla, the Breton, and another man. Young, black, I think."  
  
Travers makes an interested noise and I can hear his pen scratching on paper. "Have you a plan?"  
  
"No, sir, but I hope to discover where they're hiding out during the day, soon."  
  
"And what about the Slayer?" Travers asks. "I hope you haven't been seen by her."  
  
I grimace. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of her, sir. I'll do my best not to run into her."  
  
"Excellent, Mike. Well, keep us updated."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
In England, Travers puts the phone down, and I disconnect mine.  
  
"Council?" asks Giles, and I nod.  
  
"Quentin Travers."  
  
Buffy makes a face. "Nasty man," she says. "So you've not seen me?"  
  
"Not at all," I smile. "God, I hate this whole situation. We should all be working with each other, with the Council's funds behind us, and an army of agents. Blow up wherever it is they're sleeping during the day, or something. Not trying to slay the Scourge of Europe, his sire, and two other vamps like this. It's madness."  
  
"There, I am inclined to agree," Giles says reassuringly. "But we have little choice, and it won't be the first time we've beaten the odds. Now, let's find this spell, and perhaps we'll be a little closer."  
  
All of us, even Riley, bend over the books again, and silence falls once more in the shop. 


	8. Capture

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 8 - Capture  
  
I cross the street and recite the order to myself: two black coffees (one for me, one for Giles), one mocha with cream (Buffy), one caramel latte (Willow), one vanilla latte (Tara), and two cappuccinos (Riley and Xander). There is a small coffee shop across the way, busy at this time, but I don't mind waiting. I need a break from the research, and my head is spinning from the incense smell in the shop.  
  
We have worked all afternoon researching spells, Willow and Tara and Giles conferring almost non-stop. The rest of us have been less enthusiastic, though diligent. Over the past hour we have been flagging, though. Xander's jokes have got worse, Riley has become more laconic, Buffy more fidgety. I remember to get cookies with the coffee for Xander, and muffins for Buffy who, as I was leaving, was dragging Riley into the training room behind the shop for a workout session.  
  
I get to the counter and order, and collect one of those cardboard trays for the cups. I wait, watching the girl serving me hurry around making the coffee and filling paper bags with cookies and muffins, and someone slips into the gap next to me. I glance around, and my heart sinks.  
  
"Fancy bumping into you again!" Luc Tarpeau says cheerfully. I manage a smile.  
  
"Luckily not literally this time," I reply, and the vampire smiles. "Can I get you something?" I ask.  
  
He considers the offer, and nods. "Double espresso. Thank you."  
  
I call the girl, and add the espresso to the order. She looks faintly harassed, but surely cannot feel as harassed as myself at this moment in time. The Breton has exchanged his green velvet for a beautifully cut blue suit with a purple shirt, and, if he did not look so absurdly young, would pass for a businessman.  
  
"So," I say, trying to make conversation, "are you a local here?"  
  
He laughs. "Mon Dieu, no! No. I'm staying with relatives, who are here to see some old friends. You? I would guess perhaps not, from your accent."  
  
"You've got me there," I say, and wish I'd tried at least to fake an American twang. "I'm visiting a friend too."  
  
The girl puts my order into the cardboard tray, and I pass her a note. She hurries off to find me change.  
  
"It seems the thing to do here," Luc Tarpeau says, and nods as I pass him his coffee. "Thank you. It is very amiss of me not to have introduced myself. Luc Tarpeau."  
  
He holds out a slender hand, and I try to reduce the slight tremor in my own as I take it. I am sure he can tell that my heartbeat has accelerated, that my breathing is heavier.  
  
"Mike Fletcher." I contemplate giving a false name, for a moment, but decide that we might as well be as open as possible about this whole affair. I let go of his hand to pick up the tray and the paper sack, and turn from the counter. "Nice to meet you."  
  
He follows me, and now I really am worried. I wonder if I have time to throw the coffee in his face and run, or throw the coffee in his face and call Buffy. I can see the shop, two hundred yards away. Less than a minute's run, for me. "Are you going in this direction?" the Breton asks. "I am too. I'll walk with you."  
  
It is not a question. I clutch my purchases and hope that he'll just walk away. I don't have a hand free to grasp my stake - I could drop the drinks, or the food, but that would give the game away. So I feign casualness and fall into step by his side. He walks lightly, gracefully, glancing around him with pleasure, sipping at the espresso. I cross the street. One hundred yards to the shop. We pass an alleyway, seventy-five yards to go.  
  
Then he moves, fast, and the food goes flying. I try to throw the coffee at him but miss, and now he has both my arms in a steel hold and we are concealed by the darkness of the alley. I open my mouth to yell out, and it is covered by a cold, strong hand.  
  
"I've got him, sire," the Breton says to the darkness, and I think that is when I faint.  
  
* * *  
  
It is no longer dark when I wake up, groggily pulling myself up through layers of mist to full awareness. Wherever I am is lit by firelight and candlelight, and there is a ceiling high above me. I am lying on cold stone flagstones, and as I try to move my limbs I realise they are tied - no, not tied, chained.  
  
"Guys, I reckon he's waking up," a voice close by says, and a face looms into vision. I do not recognise this one, but from his complexion he appears to be the Breton's companion from the other night - Charles Gunn, was that what he was called?  
  
There are two pairs of soft footsteps from opposite sides of me, and more voices.  
  
"I may have hit him too hard," Luc Tarpeau says, in a worried tone. "They're so delicate, ces humains."  
  
"So weak." There's a smile in this voice, and I fight the urge to faint again. "But you're right, Gunn, he is waking up." The face of the unknown vampire moves, and in its place there is a sideways view of aquiline features and deep brown eyes glinting with malice. "Mr Fletcher?" Angelus says.  
  
The vampire called Gunn picks me up and heaves me into a sitting position against a wall, as cold as the floor. Now I can see a fireplace opposite, and some chairs, a stylish coffee table. Darla, in red, is reclining in one of the chairs and seems bored and not interested in me, for which I am momentarily grateful. Very grateful.  
  
Angelus squats down and stares at me with the clinical interest of a scientist studying a laboratory guinea pig. "Does Buffy know you're here?" he demands, after a moment.  
  
"Who?" I say. "I don't know a Buffy."  
  
The blow snaps my head to one side and I see stars again. "Don't lie to me," Angelus says. "Luc tells me you had a tray of coffee for seven - let me guess . Buff, Rupert, the witch, Xander . that idiot who thinks he's the Slayer's boyfriend, the vengeance demon, yourself? Research party at Rupert's new shop?" He leans in, closer, fixing me with a stare. "Who are you working for?"  
  
"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," I say, trying to stare back at him. It is difficult. I am chained against a wall in some old building, a foot from the most feared vampire in the history of the last half-century, and all I really want to do is wake up from my nightmare. "I'm working for Wesley," I repeat, affirming the statement to myself.  
  
"Wes is dead," Angelus replies.  
  
"And I'm looking for vengeance," I manage.  
  
He laughs, and the others all join in, even Darla. "Wes wasn't worth vengeance," he says, after a moment. "He tasted good - lots of fear. That moment when he realised what had happened was priceless."  
  
"Magnifique," agrees the Breton.  
  
"You know what I think?" Angelus continues, standing up but still staring down at me with that calculating gaze. "I think that the Council sent you. You smell like one of their stooges, the sort of person I used to tear apart in the old days."  
  
"That time in Paris?" Luc Tarpeau asks, pronouncing 'Paris' the French way. Angelus sends him a look that in a human would be affectionate, and in him is ghastly.  
  
"That time in Paris." He turns back to me. "Do you want to know what happened?"  
  
I am fairly sure I know this one. I think it dates from when the Breton was still human, working for Angelus. I don't think I want to hear it from the Scourge of Europe himself.  
  
"Luc here," Angelus says, gesturing towards his childe, "informed on me to a priest. Not a very clever thing to do, in retrospect. The priest told the Council. The Council sent a couple of men to get rid of me." He shakes his head, smiling a devastating lopsided smile that would almost be charming if it weren't also full of evil. "They jumped me early one evening near the house. They weren't bad, made a good effort, but in the end ."  
  
"Pieces all over the street," Luc Tarpeau concludes.  
  
"He looks kinda pale," Gunn comments, examining me with his head on the side.  
  
I think I try to smile confidently, but it must be more of a grimace, and everything fades to black. 


	9. Interrogation

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's notes: a warning before this chapter starts - it ain't going to be particularly pretty. If your stomach is sufficiently turned, let me know! (Let me know if it's not, too. Please?)  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 9 - Interrogation  
  
When I wake again, I am greeted with a brilliant smile and a calm, "You took your time."  
  
I try and rub the back of my head, which is sore and painful - I must have been slumped against the wall. I am still chained to it, and I think I have cramp in my legs.  
  
Luc Tarpeau stands up from the chair where he has been sitting reading and comes to join me, sliding down to a sitting position against the wall. "You knew who I was the moment you saw me, in that club, n'est-ce pas?" he says.  
  
There seems no point in dissembling any longer, at least not on this point. I try and calculate - the fewer times I get hit, or bitten, the longer I might last. I shrug, as best I can with the chains on. "Yes."  
  
"You hid it remarkably well," the Breton congratulates me. "I was most impressed."  
  
"So did you know who I was?" I ask, peering at the chains that attach my wrists together.  
  
"I guessed you'd be Council," Luc Tarpeau says, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "No Englishman would come here if they weren't." I keep silent. I am not going to admit to being from the Council unless I have to. The Breton watches me closely. "Say nothing, then."  
  
Giving the chains another experimental tug, I glance around the room. It is still gloomy in here, naturally, though I suppose it is probably day by now. There are velvet drapes hung across doorways, and a few weapons leaning against or hung on the walls. I wonder where I am and if Buffy will be able to work it out.  
  
"What do you think of the place?" the Breton asks. "Not the usual Californian style?"  
  
"It's . strange," I manage. He puts his head on one side and considers this.  
  
"Oui, I suppose it is. I don't believe we'd stay here if there was anything better. Darla complains about the dust. And there's no view."  
  
"A view?" The words are out before I stop to think.  
  
The vampire nods. "Darla's always enjoyed a view. Me, I don't really care." A pause. "Gunn thinks it smells musty."  
  
I can't think of anything to say to this, and tip my head back so it is resting on the wall, and close my eyes. I am trapped in a nightmare, discussing views with a vampire, waiting for . I try not to think about waiting for anything.  
  
Silence falls, save for the sound of the Breton humming a tune to himself. I want to tell him to shut up, but restrain myself. It isn't difficult to do. Time passes, time in which I try to envisage various escape routes and fail. Then I turn to wondering if Buffy and the others will come and rescue me, or if they think I have given up and gone back to England.  
  
Footsteps sound, soft but with a certain weight about them, and close beside me I hear a rustle as Luc Tarpeau stands up. A clunk, of a wooden case being placed on a table, and the click of a catch being opened. The air whispers around me and I freeze as the cold edge of some sort of knife is placed against my throat - not hard enough to draw blood, but firmly, the pressure cutting into my skin.  
  
"Open your eyes."  
  
I obey. With my head at this odd angle, my neck tilted back, I can just see that Angelus is the one holding the knife to my throat. That lopsided smile seems to be playing across his lips again, he's enjoying this.  
  
"Do I cut or do I not?" he asks. I think the question must be rhetorical, and continue breathing as shallowly as I can, trying not to move a muscle. We had a very brief two-day session on torture at Headquarters, the SAS man speaking shortly about control and only telling your torturer absolutely necessary information. But one of the things he did say was that when someone is holding a knife to you, don't move - movement can cause the knife to slip, and that could be that.  
  
Still keeping the blade where it is, Angelus shifts and settles into a seated position, too close to me for comfort. "Admirable control," he comments. "It's that Watcher training - Rupert was the same. Did he mention that, Mr Fletcher - can I call you Mike? Thank you. It was here in this very building. A fun evening, until the Slayer arrived." He pauses. "Is he still denying being from the council, Luc?"  
  
Luc Tarpeau moves into my peripheral vision. "Oui. Enfin, he didn't say he was, but he didn't say he wasn't."  
  
"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't from this Council?" I manage.  
  
Angelus shrugs, and the blade bites just enough to graze my skin. "I do apologise," he says, as a very thin trickle of blood cools my neck. He removes the blade, and I can move my head again. I turn it to look at him. "Probably not. I've seen enough Council men to know one when I see one, to recognise the training. Admit it or don't admit it, as you will." He examines the blade of the dagger that was against my throat, and runs a finger along it before licking the finger thoughtfully. "Mmm. Sometimes, you know, I miss European blood. Americans are so - well, they taste different."  
  
He stands up, one graceful, flowing movement, and picks up my jacket from a chair where it must have been thrown when they brought me here. Coming back to me, he tips it upside down and the contents of my pockets fall on to the floor. A stake, my wallet, my mobile phone, a handkerchief, a ten pence piece. Angelus tosses the coat to the Breton, who looks at it critically before putting it aside.  
  
My wallet gets the first attention. Angelus rifles through it, glancing at my credit and debit cards, my supermarket store card, my driver's licence, the picture of my little niece - will she remember her uncle? He takes out the money and puts it on the coffee table, thus confirming the Council's theory that vampires got rich on their victims' possessions. The stake goes into the fire after a brief examination. Angelus frowns at the ten pence piece and puts it with the American dollars. The handkerchief follows the stake.  
  
Next, Angelus picks up my phone, frowning at it. "I hate these things."  
  
"Let me, sire," the Breton says. Angelus smiles affectionately.  
  
"I'd forgotten I had the perfect modern vampire here. See what you can get from it, Luc."  
  
In my mind I run through the numbers stored in the phone - coded, of course. Headquarters is down under 'Helen', and I put Giles in as the 'Library'. But the codes are too simple. I hope my PIN number will fox them, and watch anxiously as the Breton flips the phone open and turns it on. It bleeps.  
  
"I need a PIN number," Luc Tarpeau says, looking up. Angelus smiles again, seemingly pleased.  
  
"And now for some persuasion," he says, and picks up my joined hands in their manacle. I notice, somewhat abstractly, that he has very long fingers, very large hands. He frowns, thinking, and takes my right forefinger in his right hand. I begin to feel a cold sweat, and try to prepare myself for whatever pain is to come. "The number?" he asks, but before I have a chance to give it, he snaps my finger. I hear the bone crack and instantly a throbbing pain runs up into my arm. Angelus picks up the next finger and pauses.  
  
"9574," I say, quickly, horrified at myself for giving in so easily. But I cannot fight at all with a useless hand. They know I am from the Council - better, maybe, to let people know where I am, if they test the numbers?  
  
Angelus breaks the next finger casually as Luc Tarpeau is inputting the number, and I just manage not to scream. This is not calculated torture, it seems. He won't stop when he has an answer.  
  
"It's right," the Breton says, pressing buttons on my phone. "Aha. 'Helen'. A petite-amie?" he asks.  
  
"Just a friend," I manage, gritting my teeth against the throbbing in my hand. More button-pressing.  
  
"'Library'?" the Breton says.  
  
"Try that," Angelus orders, standing up again. "No, wait. Pass me it."  
  
He holds the telephone to his ear, and waits. There is silence. Then, someone must have answered it, because Angelus smiles, and throws the phone back to the Breton. "That'll do."  
  
Luc Tarpeau ends the call.  
  
"That was Rupert," Angelus says. "He sounded extremely concerned."  
  
Relief floods through me. Maybe Willow can trace the call? Maybe they heard Angelus' voice before the call was cut off? Suddenly I don't mind what is going to happen, because I am sure they will do something. They have to do something. 


	10. The Connection

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's notes: sorry this has been a little longer coming than usual - I was finishing an Aragorn story that wouldn't let me go. Anyway, here's a brief instalment to keep your appetites whetted.  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 10 - The Connection  
  
There is, I find, a certain clarity when every part of your body hurts. You have to focus more on the environment around you. This is difficult, I am finding. I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. My vision's a little blurred. But I think I could still tell you how many logs there are on the fire at the moment.  
  
The day must be nearly over by now. About halfway through the Breton went away, and it was just me and .  
  
The Council got it wrong, when they said vampires were simply evil, that they didn't really think or consider their actions. There's no such thing as simply evil. There is the evil of most vampires, which prompts them to kill because they are hungry - and most vampires will grab and bite and leave the body. At the other end of the scale, there's Angelus. He cares. He cares about what he does and he makes sure he does it properly. I wish I was going to have a chance to tell the Council that, to remedy this image of him as just a particularly nasty vampire. He's so much more, so much worse. They need to know, they have to know, for the next Slayer. I don't think Buffy will kill him. I know I can't, not now. It was systematic, you see: first my hands, so I couldn't use a weapon, then this eye, so I couldn't aim a crossbow, then my legs, so I can't try to kick.  
  
There are footsteps on the flagstones, and I try to recede into myself. Perhaps if I make myself as small as possible, they'll forget I'm here?  
  
The footsteps come right up to me, and I look up through my good eye. It is Luc Tarpeau, clearly designated as my watcher now Angelus has gone. He stands and examines me for a moment, and nods in appreciation before bobbing down.  
  
"I brought you some water." I eye the glass suspiciously. It could be poisoned. The Breton pushes it towards me. "Allez. It won't kill you - why would we kill you that way?"  
  
He tips the glass up and water trickles into my mouth, cool and fresh. It helps. I begin to feel a little more lucid, and swallow some more.  
  
"Thank you," I croak. The Breton smiles brilliantly.  
  
"We wouldn't want you to die of thirst either. And Gunn's bringing you something to eat when he gets back. The night has just fallen."  
  
So now I know what time it is, and that I have been here nearly twenty-four hours. By now they must have given up on me, decided not to come after me, thinking that I have gone back to England.  
  
Luc Tarpeau leaves the glass by my side, and gets up to go and sit on the sofa, picking up a book and settling down with a soft sigh of contentment. I close my eyes again. It is more comfortable if I do not try to see anything out of the damaged one, the one with the swollen eyelid.  
  
Time passes, again. There are soft rustles from the Breton's book, pages being turned. Now and again he lets out a short chuckle. I fall into dreaming of green fields and red buses, of beer in pubs and the staid traditions of the Council. They'll hold a memorial service for me, in the chapel, with prayers and few tears shed. I am an active agent and as such they'd always have expected me to die one day. Travers will give a short eulogy, someone will sing a song, and that will be that. I doze off, trying to imagine myself back in my room at Headquarters, listening to music .  
  
"Well, I heard it was true," a voice says, breaking into my dreams, "but I wasn't going to believe it till I came here myself."  
  
I frown. Surely I know that voice?  
  
"Spike?" The Breton's voice is full of astonishment.  
  
"Hi, Luc." I open my eye and look around, and yes, it is William the Bloody, cigarette in hand. The Breton has dropped his book and is grinning widely.  
  
"Mais . where were you?" The vampires cross to each other; Spike claps Luc Tarpeau on the back heartily.  
  
"Round and about," Spike says vaguely. "Europe, with Dru. Prague - bleedin' nightmare, nearly got ourselves killed. Here, too much."  
  
"How is Drusilla?" the Breton asks, and for a second the grin drops off Spike's face.  
  
"Dunno. In South America. But I'm not here to talk about Dru. Someone said Angelus was back."  
  
Luc Tarpeau nods, and waves Spike towards a seat. "It's true. As you can see." He glances at me, hunched in my corner, and Spike follows the glance.  
  
"Oh yeah. That's the old man's work, all right. Know who he is?"  
  
"Un anglais. He calls himself Mike Fletcher. We think he works for the Council, but he's kept quiet until now."  
  
Spike grinds out his cigarette. "Yeah, he's Council. Came to me the other day with the Slayer and her Watcher. They wanted me to help them."  
  
"You said no?"  
  
"Course I bloody well did!" Spike exclaims. "Despite what happened last time, with Acathla an' all - you heard about that?"  
  
"I heard," the Breton says.  
  
"I wasn't too happy then," Spike says, slowly, "but I've had some time to think since and I reckon we're better off with Angelus than the poof. Where is he?"  
  
"Out with Darla," the Breton said. "I got the first watch. He was a little worried he'd done too much, and thought he should wait before starting again."  
  
I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes again, trying to cut the vampires out, trying to concentrate on strong thoughts, on stopping this pain.  
  
It is then I feel something inside my mind, something trying to reach me. I frown, and listen again. It sounds like a radio at a very low volume, whispering, "Mike? Mike?" I wonder if I am hallucinating again. But the voices continue. "Mike, can you hear us?"  
  
There are definitely two voices, together, in chorus. Female voices, light but determined to get through to me. I must be hallucinating, but if I am surely there is no harm in trying to reply. I think, as loudly as I can, "Who are you?"  
  
I feel a rush of happiness, and the voices grow stronger. "It's Willow and Tara. Where are you?"  
  
They have not forgotten me. They have not abandoned me. The joy I feel is astounding and uplifting, and I reply immediately, "I don't know. It's a large hall, with a fireplace. It's Angelus's." I falter over the name. There is a pause.  
  
"Like this?" I see a picture in my mind, and it matches almost exactly the room I am in. I want to nod, but try to keep my head still.  
  
"Yes!" I cry back. "Yes!"  
  
"The mansion," Willow's voice comes strongly through now. "Who's there?"  
  
"Now, just the Breton and Spike," I say.  
  
"Spike?"  
  
I confirm the question, and the happiness through the connection subsides a bit. Then I feel Tara's comforting voice.  
  
"We'll come and find you, Mike. Or Buffy will. Hang in there."  
  
"Thank you," I manage. "Thank you."  
  
"Buffy says she'll be there soon," their voices return. "Giles says he's coming with her. Xander says he'll stake Spike for you. We've got to go. We'll see you soon."  
  
The connection fades, and dies. But my hope has been reborn, and I let myself fade into unconsciousness again. 


	11. Showdown

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 11 - Showdown  
  
"I bought a chainsaw."  
  
The voice makes me curl up and wish I were invisible. There is a thud as a box is dropped on the floor, and then a pause, followed by, "Will?"  
  
"Hey," Spike says.  
  
I open my eyes. Angelus is back, a large box on the floor by his feet. But he is staring at Spike in what looks like genuine astonishment. Spike scratches his ear.  
  
"All we need now is Drusilla, sire," Luc Tarpeau puts in. "Spike heard you were back."  
  
"And came to betray me, again?" Angelus says, sarcastic. "Like last time? Want to go and tell Buff I'm here, eh, William?"  
  
"Nah. No," Spike repeats, "I've come to join you. Look, I'm sorry about the Acathla business . and the Gem of Amara business too," Angelus raises an eyebrow. Spike hurries on. "But I've turned a new leaf, all right? I'm with you on this one. Honest."  
  
Angelus regards him silently for a moment, and Spike waits. Finally, the older vampire nods. "One move, Will, one single thing, and you're dust."  
  
"Yes, sire." Spike actually sounds submissive, and I don't know why that surprises me - should anything surprise me now? "The bloke, he's Council."  
  
"Is he?" Angelus says.  
  
"Yeah. The Slayer came to get my help, the other day, he was with her."  
  
Angelus swings round and regards me, a smile on the corner of his lips. "I knew it." He crosses the floor to Spike and puts his hands on the shoulders of the blond vampire. "Welcome home."  
  
They exchange grins, and then Angelus turns to me again. "I hope I didn't waste a kill on that chainsaw," he muses aloud. I clench my fists, willing myself not to move, not to show fear, though even as he takes one step towards me I know my heartbeat has accelerated.  
  
I try reaching Willow and Tara again, even as he bends down and opens the box and takes out a brand-new, shiny chainsaw, and takes hold of the handle to start it up. Nothing. There is nothing. The connection has gone. Angelus starts to pull the handle of the saw, and then something happens.  
  
The bolt embeds itself in the sofa even as the curtains are whipped aside, and a voice says cheerfully, "Hiya, honey!"  
  
Buffy. The Slayer. I breathe a sigh of relief. She has a crossbow in one hand and is wearing a sword on her hip, and behind her, the massed forces of Giles, Riley, Xander, Willow and Tara. Now we outnumber the vampires, just.  
  
Angelus glares, and does not start the chainsaw, instead shouting, "Darla! We have company!"  
  
Buffy frowns, but the aim of the crossbow does not waver. "Will, go and help Mike," she says, glancing at me and smiling reassuringly. Willow and Tara break from the group and hurry over to me, leaving a large circle between them and Angelus. Sensible girls. They look at my chains, and look at each other before joining hands and hurriedly chanting something over them. The metal tingles, but nothing happens.  
  
Willow looks panicked.  
  
"Iron," Tara says.  
  
"Can't magic iron," Angelus says. "Who's the other witch, Willow?"  
  
Willow's face is set, but she does not respond.  
  
"Hey!" Buffy says. "You're here for me, aren't you?"  
  
Angelus flicks his gaze back to the Slayer, and he smiles. "Of course I am, lover. Who else would I be here for? Why else come to Sunnydale, if it wasn't to kill the Slayer?"  
  
Buffy grits her teeth but does not move an inch. Behind her, Riley peels off and hurries over to Tara and Willow, pulling something out of a pocket as he does so.  
  
"The Slayer and her little gang, of course," Angelus continues. "Still with the boyfriend, I see?"  
  
Next to me, Riley is working on my manacles with a skeleton key. His expression tightens. One of the manacles drops free.  
  
"How's that working out?" Angelus asks, stepping towards Buffy. "Or are you still hoping you'll wake up and find he's me?"  
  
Giles looks ready to stake Angelus now, but at the same time he is watching Luc Tarpeau and Spike in the background and remains ready behind Buffy.  
  
"He's way better than you," Buffy says vehemently.  
  
"You mean you'd take a snivelling human over my boy?" Darla questions, emerging from one of the back rooms. She is wearing a red dress cut to show off her figure, and comes across the room to stand next to her partner. "She's pathetic, Angelus. Hurry up and kill her, I'm bored of waiting for you." She glances round. "Spike."  
  
"Darla."  
  
The second manacle is off now, and I can move my hands around - or my left arm. My right is too stiff too move. Tara sends me a comforting look, and pats it gently. "We'll soon have you safe," she says softly.  
  
Angelus's head snaps around, and he seems to notice for the first time exactly what Riley is doing. Before any of us could have reacted, before even Buffy can react, he is over to me, and Riley has gone flying to land in a heap over on the other side of the room. The Breton goes to make sure he is properly knocked out. Willow and Tara have scrambled to their feet and are backing hurriedly away.  
  
Angelus takes hold of my shoulder, the uninjured one, and hauls me to my feet. "You want him, Buff?"  
  
"Just go, Buffy," I manage to say. "Tell the Council what happened."  
  
"Nuh-uh," she says. "This has been way overdue. He's killed too many of my friends."  
  
"Thinking of Cordy?" Angelus asks, his grip on my shoulder unfaltering. "She went down beautifully. Remember that, Luc?"  
  
The Breton has been occupied in binding Riley's hands and feet, and now stands up and comes over to join his sire. "Elle était si belle, c'est vrai."  
  
Spike follows. "You got Cordelia? Nice one."  
  
Now they are facing one another, the two sides: four humans and the Slayer, four deadly vampires and myself in the middle. There is an impasse. Buffy and Angelus are glaring at each other, and Darla is glaring at both of them. Spike, unconcerned, has lit another cigarette, and the Breton has his hands behind his back and is examining each of Buffy's companions with clinical interest.  
  
Suddenly, Xander moves, clutching a battleaxe in his hand and letting out a roar of fury. He comes straight at Angelus, who reacts almost as soon as I have noticed Xander moving. I hit the ground, hearing a crack as my shoulder breaks, but the momentum of the fall keeps me rolling away out of danger. Buffy shouts, "No, Xander!" and lets a bolt go. Angelus ducks and swerves, and the bolt goes flying harmlessly at the wall. I manage to prop myself up near the remains of my manacles, and watch as Xander succeeds in landing a blow with the flat of the axe-head. Buffy has passed her crossbow to Willow, and draws the sword to hurry to her friend's aid.  
  
"Luc! Sword!" Angelus growls, landing a blow to Xander's stomach. The boy grunts but to his credit keeps standing and keeps trying to hit the vampire with the axe. Angelus catches the broadsword which Luc Tarpeau throws to him, and meets Buffy even as she pushes Xander out of the way. Their swords clash.  
  
Spike sighs, and begins to circle towards the door, and I just hear him mutter, "Déjà-soddin'-vu," before he ducks past Giles and runs, out into the night. Giles shakes his head at Willow who is making to follow the blond vampire, and they let him go.  
  
Buffy and Angelus are still fighting. Buffy is the more graceful as she parries and swipes, but he has more skill, and his height and strength seem to be giving him the upper hand. The Breton is still watching from the sidelines with Darla, but she is clearly getting fidgety. I see Giles bend to say something to Willow, who nods vigorously and passes the message on to Tara, and that little group splits - the girls towards me, Giles towards Riley who still seems to be unconscious.  
  
At that point, there is a cry from Buffy, and a clang as her sword goes spinning away from her and lands on the stone flagstones.  
  
"Fell for that one again," Angelus taunts. "I'm not going to make the same mistake I made last time, though." He smiles. Buffy backs away towards her weapon. I close my eyes, not wanting to see this, knowing that it is inevitable.  
  
In my darkness, I hear Giles shout, "Willow!" A voice I do not recognise for a moment, deep and powerful, calls out three words, and the world goes silent.  
  
I open my eyes.  
  
A bubble of nothingness surrounds the three vampires, freezing them in their motions - Darla, turned towards the door, the Breton, hand on Darla's arm, and Angelus, the tip of his sword a mere inch from Buffy's heart. None of us move for a moment, and then Giles hurries to Buffy, and helps her to her feet, before putting out a hand for Xander. Willow and Tara help me stand, gently, but I cannot help wincing as they hold my arms. Over in the corner, Riley moves and moans, and Giles leaves Buffy and Xander supporting each other and goes to help him up.  
  
"Can we stake them through the spell?" Buffy asks, her face pale and drawn.  
  
Willow shakes her head. "No. Sorry - I couldn't think of anything else to do."  
  
"You did the right thing," Giles says. "Let's go, now. There's always tomorrow." He takes a proper look at me, and his eyes show sympathy. "Mike needs medical treatment."  
  
We take a last look at the frozen vampires, and turn reluctantly away from them towards the door. Buffy collects her sword, and is turning it ruefully in her hand when footsteps approach and the curtain is pulled back.  
  
Charles Gunn, the last of the family, stares for a moment at the bubble containing his sire, and then at us. "What the hell?" he says, and then, "oh man."  
  
"Can I stake him?" Buffy asks me.  
  
"Go ahead," I reply, and she whips out her stake and plunges it into the heart of the young vampire, who mouths a curse before disintegrating into dust.  
  
"Let's go," Giles says, and we hurry out, into the night. 


	12. After Effects

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's notes: some bad language in this. Just a little, fairly mild. If you think it warrants a rating rise, please let me know.  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 12 - After Effects  
  
Sunnydale hospital is much like any hospital anywhere in the world - bland white walls, doctors and nurses rushed off their feet, that smell of disinfectant. Except that I have never met such bland indifference to what caused my injuries anywhere else. We agreed to tell them it was a car accident, if they asked - that would at least explain my broken shoulder, my broken arm - but they did not ask. They let Giles accompany me through the examination, and he watched as they cleaned and stitched and put my arms in slings and told me I'd have to have them plastered, and they'd be back shortly. Then, they left us alone. I put my head back against the blessedly soft pillow and closed my eyes.  
  
"Are you okay?" Giles asks, concern in his voice.  
  
"I'll live. I think."  
  
"You should ask them for sleeping pills, when you're discharged," he continues, and I open my eyes and meet his behind the glasses. He half- smiles at me. "I th - believe you may need them."  
  
"I've never really had a problem with dreams," I say, grasping what he's trying to say, and he shrugs.  
  
"Neither did I."  
  
I know we are both thinking of the nightmare that woke him only a few nights ago, and I shiver involuntarily. Giles reaches out, hesitantly, and pats my hand.  
  
"Thank you for coming," I say. "Until . until Willow and Tara got through to me, I was about ready to give up."  
  
"There comes a point where giving up seems all you can do," he agrees. "When you wonder just what else he can do."  
  
"He never slipped," I say. Neither of us need to pronounce the name. "Not once. I never saw his vampire face."  
  
Giles takes off his glasses and wipes them on a handkerchief, frowning down at the lenses. "I wish we'd killed him."  
  
"I wish we'd killed them all," I return, and we lapse into silence. It is comforting to be with Giles, quiet and wise and caring, and I see why Buffy has come to depend on her Watcher, and why he has stayed with her through so many trials. He is a good man.  
  
The door opens, and the others crowd into my little room. Riley is with them, a bandage on his head but otherwise looking all right.  
  
"We brought doughnuts," Willow announces, and passes one to Giles. "Jelly."  
  
"Thank you." Giles takes the pastry, wrapped in a napkin, and bites into it. Willow looks at me with a frown creasing her forehead.  
  
"Mike?"  
  
"I'm not hungry, actually," I say. "They've dosed me up with painkillers."  
  
"Poor you," Tara murmurs, and I do my best to smile at her - though I dread to think what the effect must be like.  
  
Buffy sits down on the chair next to my bed, and I glance at her. She seems downcast, and there are tear streaks on her face which she has not wiped off. "I'm sorry it turned out like this," I say to her, softly, whilst the others are busy sharing out doughnuts.  
  
"Yeah." She hugs her knees. "Me too." She watches Riley fight amicably over the last doughnut with Xander. "I was all ready for it, you know? And then - zip, clang, the Slayer nearly dies, again, and is saved by her friends, again."  
  
"He had the advantages in that fight," I point out, feeling desperately sorry for her. "He's stronger, and taller, and I bet he was using a sword from a really young age. He knew what he was doing." I pause. "And he didn't care. You do. That matters, Buffy. You care about things."  
  
She shrugs. "I guess."  
  
I open my mouth to add something, and there is a buzzing noise. The telephone bymy bed is ringing. Giles looks at me, and then picks it up.  
  
"Hello?" He listens to the voice on the other end. "Quentin, it's Rupert Giles."  
  
My heart drops. Could the night get any worse?  
  
"Yes, he's here. No, he can't talk. Well, I could hold the phone to his ear for him - no, he can't." Giles frowns. "He had both his arms broken, Quentin. Both of them. For you and your wretched kamikaze missions. All right." He holds the receiver away from his ear, and says, "Travers. Wanting to speak."  
  
"If I have to," I say, and Giles pulls his chair closer to me so he can hold the receiver to my ear.  
  
"You disobeyed orders!" Quentin Travers says, almost shouting.  
  
"Yes, sir, I did."  
  
"I called your mobile to see how you were doing. Care to guess who picked it up?" I think I have a good idea, but the name sticks in my throat, and I wait. Travers answers for me. "Angelus! Angelus - do you have any idea what you've done?"  
  
"I'm not dead, and the Slayer isn't dead, sir," I reply.  
  
"Neither are the vampires I sent you to kill!" Travers shouts.  
  
"Five vampires against one man," I point out, trying desperately to stay calm. "Going to Miss Summers was my only choice, sir. I apologise for disobeying you, but I thought we had a better chance of succeeding. He - he came for her, not me."  
  
"So how did your phone end up with him?" Travers demands.  
  
"I was caught," I admit. "Last night. At least - was it last night?" I ask Giles, and he nods. "Knocked out, sir."  
  
"And you let them get into your phone? How could you?"  
  
I close my eyes, remembering the crack as my bones were broken. "When someone is . is enjoying torturing you, sir, you . you'll say anything to stop it. Goodbye."  
  
Giles takes the phone back. "Satisfied, Quentin? Of course we'll bloody well try and kill him. All of us would be very happy to see the bastard dust. Oh, you remember that, do you? Good. Keep on remembering it. Goodbye, Quentin."  
  
He slams the phone down and sits, pale for a moment. Xander says, "Wow."  
  
My fingers and my arm and my face are throbbing again, the effect of the painkillers gone, and I manage to catch Giles's eye. "I think I need a doctor," I manage, and black out. 


	13. The Scent of Lilies

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's note: there will be some sort of climatic chapter very soon .  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 13 - The Scent of Lilies  
  
"Explosives," Xander says. "Blow 'em up."  
  
There is silence, and everyone looks at everyone else.  
  
"Hmmm," says Giles, thoughtfully.  
  
"We've done it before," Buffy points out, and glances at me. "The high school," she adds.  
  
"I could maybe source the explosives for you," Riley offers, and Buffy squeezes his hand.  
  
"Plant them in daylight," Buffy expands, "and then boom!"  
  
"Lots of dust," Willow finishes. "I like it."  
  
"B - but," stammers Tara, and we all watch her. She frowns and looks down at her skirt. "But, can we really blow up a building?"  
  
"Been there, done that, got the graduation robes," Xander reiterates. "Giles knows how."  
  
"But won't someone . catch us?" Tara says. Willow smiles fondly at her girlfriend.  
  
"We could blow them up too," Anya suggests, perching on the edge of Xander's chair. I gather she arrived while I was still unconscious.  
  
"This is Sunnydale," Buffy says. "The cops are useless. We'll be fine."  
  
"Riley, how quickly can you get the materials?" Giles asks. Riley shrugs.  
  
"Give me twenty-four hours, max."  
  
Giles rubs at his forehead. "Okay. Right. In that case, we'll set the explosives tomorrow during the day. For now, I want one fighter and one magic-user here with Mike, throughout the day and night. Can we set up a barrier on the door?"  
  
"Of this room?" Willow says, and glances at Tara.  
  
"I - I think so," Tara nods. Giles smiles at them wearily.  
  
"Do it, and then go home. First watch will be Anya and Xander. Change over at," he glances at his watch, "at three this afternoon. Myself and Tara. At seven, Buffy and Willow."  
  
"Because they're more likely to come this evening," Buffy says, meeting her Watcher's eyes. "Okay. Good plan."  
  
Riley fidgets, and eventually speaks. "Can't I do a watch?"  
  
"You'll be getting the bomb," Buffy says kindly. "Plus, your head. You're supposed to be resting." She smiles at him.  
  
Suddenly the room is a flurry of activity, as Willow and Tara, with some advice from Anya, move chairs, close the blind, turn off the electric lights, and, in the new gloom, chant a simple spell which throws up a blue barrier in the doorway. "That'll stop anything not human," Willow says with satisfaction, and we watch as the blue fades to nothing.  
  
They begin to file out. Xander hurries off to fetch "supplies" for the first watch. Giles pauses until the room is almost empty. "If they come, call me, Mike," he says softly.  
  
"I'm . thank you," I say, lost for anything more meaningful to tell this kind, wise man. Giles smiles, and then turns quickly and leaves.  
  
Anya swings her legs on her chair. "I'm bored already," she tells me.  
  
I wriggle to a better sitting position and lean back against my pillows. "Tell me about being a vengeance demon," I say, and the girl grins and starts up her stories.  
  
I listen with half an ear to Anya for most of the afternoon. Xander sits, eats, and exchanges embarrassed smiles with me as his girlfriend gives us detailed descriptions of acts of vengeance. To be honest, many of them are rather too detailed for my taste, coming so soon . but I manage to tune her out after a little while, and let myself drift away with hazy memories of England, of playing tennis with Wesley on summer afternoons, of visiting Oxford with him one day in May to watch the rowing and sitting on the riverbank amidst a horde of undergraduates, drinking Pimm's and reflecting on how different my own dissatisfied university days had been from his.  
  
At three Giles and Tara return, Tara with a pile of work from college, and Giles with a pile of books and a journal, and they settle to silent study. I appreciate the quiet, and manage to sleep a little before waking with a start only thirty minutes later, thinking I heard the buzz of a chainsaw. Giles frowns and goes to fetch tea. At some point the nurses bring me a sandwich and some more pills, check that I am comfortable and hydrated, and hurry away again.  
  
Seven o' clock comes, and Tara and Giles are replaced by Buffy and Willow. Buffy has a large bag which clanks as she puts it down, and when she is settled she pulls out a knife and some pieces of wood and settles down to carving stakes with a concentrated expression on her face. Willow sits cross-legged in a chair next to my bed and reads from a magic book for a while before putting it down and asking questions about the Council, questions which I find I don't mind answering. An hour passes, then two, and then we hear footsteps down the corridor, which has become somewhat quieter now night has fallen. Buffy and Willow exchange glances, and Buffy puts down her knife and finds a completed stake.  
  
The footsteps slow as they get to my room, and come to a halt. The door is pushed open, and then there is a buzz and a flash of energy as my visitor tries to come into the room. Buffy is on her feet, stake poised.  
  
"I brought you some flowers," Luc Tarpeau says from behind the barrier, holding a bouquet of white lilies. He looks cool and calm, as if he had expected the magical protection. He examines me for a moment, and then turns his gaze on Buffy and Willow, and bows at each of them. "Mademoiselle Summers, mademoiselle . Rosenberg, I believe I was told?"  
  
"Just the Slayer to you," Buffy says coldly. "Now you can't get in, so why not hurry off and tell Angel to get out of my town?"  
  
The Breton puts out a hand and touches the barrier carefully. "No, I can't get in, but neither can you stay in there indefinitely, and I'm sure your friends are out and about somewhere. Possibly planning something new for us?"  
  
"Do as she says," I say with an effort. "Just leave, now."  
  
He smiles, and shrugs in a very Gallic way. "It's not my decision, monsieur Fletcher, as I think you're probably aware. I'll certainly let Angelus know that you're not exactly improving swiftly. He'll be delighted." The flowers sail through the barrier and land on my bed. "We had thought of chocolates or something," Luc Tarpeau adds, "but we thought that you'd suspect us of having poisoned them, or some such silly thing. Darla suggested lilies instead, as we certainly won't stay around for your funerals." His smile drops, and he fixes me with those grey eyes. "Flowers now. La mort - later. A bientot."  
  
He is gone, swiftly and silently, and we are left with the cloying smell of lilies.  
  
"So that's the Breton," Buffy says, sitting back down heavily. "Polite."  
  
"Lethal," I say, my headache starting up again, throbbing in my temples and around my swollen eye. "Can you throw these away?"  
  
Willow looks at the lilies, and then with a glance at Buffy, she waves a hand at them and mutters, "Incendia!" They vanish in a puff of smoke and a flash of flame, leaving the bedspread unharmed.  
  
But we can still smell them, and as we settle for the remainder of their watch, that sickly scent hangs over my head like a ghastly reminder of what might yet come. 


	14. Going Home

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Death Awaits: chapter 14 - Going Home  
  
Xander runs up to us, panting a little. "Last one set on my side."  
  
Riley nods, and looks at Giles, who fiddles with the fuse box and closes it firmly. "I think we're ready."  
  
Buffy takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "Okay. Okay."  
  
"I can set it off," Giles says gently. "You don't have to do it, Buffy."  
  
"I want to," she replies. "I do. I . just . give me a second."  
  
"I'd do it for you," I tell her, "but -"  
  
"No hands," she agrees. "I know. Okay." She fixes her gaze on the shape of the mansion, partially hidden by trees from this spot a hundred yards away. We hope that the trees will afford protection from what might be a sizeable blast. Riley has apologised several times for not being able to find more wire, and now he fidgets and watches his girlfriend as she steels herself.  
  
Buffy puts her hand to the lever, and pauses again. Then, she murmurs, "Bye, Angel," and pushes.  
  
The shock wave from the explosion throws us all to the ground. Riley manages to move so he is covering Buffy's slender body with his own. I land in an undignified heap, banging my shoulder which sends a new wave of pain through me. The bang comes a moment later.  
  
We sit up and watch as pieces of debris sail down towards the ground again, and the flames start to lick upwards into the sky. Giles rests his elbow on his knee and slowly cleans his glasses; Buffy buries her head in Riley's solid shoulder and begins to cry.  
  
* * *  
  
"You could stay here longer," Buffy says, leaning on the table in the centre of the Magic Box. "Stay at my place. Mom won't mind. Dawn might, but she doesn't matter."  
  
"I'd love to," I say, smiling at her. "I wish I'd had a chance to meet your mum and your sister. But I have to get back, or I really will be out of a job."  
  
"It's the Council!" Xander exclaims, putting down a can of fizzy drink. "Why d'you want to go back anyway?"  
  
"I don't want to," I explain. "But I can't do anything else. It's all I'm suited for, working for them."  
  
Giles closes a book. "I doubt that very much, Mike, but I do understand. They cling, don't they?"  
  
I nod. "I know that half of what they do is wrong, but some people still believe in morals, and the power of good - and the Slayer," I add, directing the words at the girl in question. "I'll work on convincing a few more. Maybe they'll take you back, Rupert."  
  
He shakes his head, smiling. "I don't think so. Have you got everything? We should leave now, if we're going to catch your flight."  
  
"It's all in my case." I gesture with an elbow towards it, lying on the floor by the counter.  
  
Buffy springs up from her seat and comes to hug me, clearly trying to be gentle and only just failing. "Thanks. I mean it. Write?"  
  
I wish I could hug her back, and content myself with another smile. "Yeah."  
  
She produces a stake from a pocket, and pushes it into my less-injured hand. "I carved this one myself."  
  
"I'm really touched," I say, and I am. It has been a difficult time, these days on the Hellmouth, but meeting the Slayer - no, meeting Buffy Summers - has helped make it worthwhile.  
  
Willow follows her friend, hugging me more carefully and pressing a rose- coloured crystal into my hand along with the stake. "It's a protection crystal . from me and Tara."  
  
"It might help," Tara offers, smiling her shy smile, and I thank them both from the bottom of my heart.  
  
Xander gives me a manly pat on the back, and Anya waves a laconic hand from behind the counter. "You did good," she says. "Make sure those stories I told you are in the Council archives."  
  
"I'll have a look," I promise, and Giles picks up my case.  
  
Riley nods at me, putting an arm around Buffy, and I get the feeling he is quite glad I am going home. I follow Giles from the shop to a chorus of farewells.  
  
At the airport, Giles stays with me until my case is checked in and I can manage without his hands. We pause at the entrance to the departure area, neither of us sure what to say. Finally, he studies his hands.  
  
"Whatever . whatever the Council have to say, Mike, whatever they threaten to do, don't listen to them. Travers knows he has little support."  
  
"He'll have less, soon," I say, and Giles smiles briefly.  
  
"Good. An - and . if you ever need to talk . about . about it, about him, call me. Maybe it'll help." I manage a nod. Giles goes on, hurriedly. "It might help. I'm here."  
  
"What helps," I say, "is knowing he's dead. That helps. I'm sorry I had to bring this to you, Rupert."  
  
"You did the right thing," he says, and although I am still not sure I did, I am grateful for his words.  
  
"I'd better go," I say, and he nods. "Thank you," I add, empty words, but all I really have.  
  
I turn, and go through the doorway into the departure area. As I let the security guard take my passport from my hand, I look back and see Giles walk away, his head bowed.  
  
FIN  
  
Author's note: and so Mike's voice comes to an end, for now. You'll just have to wait and see if there's any more. (Cue evil laugh.) Apologies for a) the lack of Lindsey. He didn't fit; and b) the lack of Mike fighting. I just wanted his injuries to be real, and it takes a good six weeks to recover from a broken bone, never mind severe trauma to several bones, joints, and so on.  
  
Coming next from me, as I promised at the end of 'The Breton'; more from the AU Connorverse. Connor, now eighteen, heads off to university. With the age of majority, what lies in store? 


End file.
